Helicopter
by rhododendron
Summary: Dean Winchester remembers his first solo hunt. That kind of thing was hard to forget, no matter how hard you tried. Oneshot, in which Dean is alone, and Sam has changed.


**Title**: Helicopter  
**Rating**: K+ (subject)  
I love reviews.  
**Disclaimer**: Supernatural does not belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.

_North to south; empty  
Running on bravado  
As if to say, as if to say  
As if to say, he doesn't like chocolate  
He's born a liar, he'll die a liar  
Some things will never be different_

_Stop being so American  
There's a time and there's a place  
So James Dean,  
So blue jeans,  
Gonna save the world._

_Are you hoping for a miracle?_

- Bloc Party, "Helicopter"

Dean Winchester remembers his first solo hunt. That kind of thing was hard to forget, no matter how hard you tried. John had left him the day before, barreling off in his truck to a waiting poltergeist in Wichita. Dean remained, alone, standing in the hotel room with empty hands. He felt the need to fill them, and cleaned the guns four times before finally falling asleep in the uncomfortable chair, head bending over the .38.

He wakes up the next morning with an aching back and one hand clenched around the cleaning cloth, wondering what the night had been like for John. Did he shake it off with Miller? He was a maudlin drunk- so was Sam. Dean drives the thought from his head, and the Impala from the lot. It still feels disconcertingly large- no Sammy in the front seat, his six-foot-something frame taking up all the space.

Dean tells himself it's a blessing, and then stops talking to himself, because everyone knows it's the first sign of insanity, and the last thing he needs right now is validation. His hands are on the wrapped leather wheel, his foot on the pedal, his neck is heavy from the amulet that always feels about twice its weight. This is the first time that he wishes he could bow his head from the burden. The Impala is silent and he reaches down, to the box that suddenly fits on the floor in front of the passenger seat now that there is no one sitting there. The thought is enough to make his hand shake as he grabs a cassette and slips it in. Light guitar and a dark voice fills the space, and it's not something he would usually listen to, but it's one of the few he and Sammy agreed on so he leaves it in. As a peace offering to whatever's making this mood wash over him. He half-heartedly makes plans with himself to get laid once he reaches Transon, but his heart isn't in it, so he turns up the volume instead.

The spirit was garden variety, and easy to take care of, which is why Dean is surprised at himself when he realizes he's been cornered at the top of the stairs by it. It's a clear jump down the floors and he knows he could make it, especially if he grabs the railing on the way and catches himself halfway before letting go. A rifle is held in front of him in a sturdy grip, and he knows that it has at least three rounds left. The thing is coming at him, all oozing blood and torn fabric and all he has to do is move his trigger finger back a centimeter, but he knows even before it's on him that he won't do it. He waits until it's thrown him off the landing, sent him thudding down the stairs on his back and through the cracked French doors at the base of the staircase. He moves slowly even after he's wasted it and the thing's been vaporized. Dean moves to the scar in the ground, tossing the match in after the salt and the lighter fluid until the open sore glows red at the edges like a cauterized wound. He limps his way back to the hotel and climbs the fire escape, leaving drippings of blood on the rusted wrought iron and rosy smears on the window as he levers it open. Slick, slippery hands find the cassette and slip it into the tape player in the corner of the room and he finally falls on the bed, bleeding and bruised from being slammed down a staircase and through two glass doors. Dean dimly decides to worry about the glass slivers he can feel under his skin later and falls asleep to the sound of the same dark chords, because he's feeling like hell, and it's better than he has all week.

Dean Winchester remembers his first visit to Palo Alto. He gets Sam's dorm number from the student center and drives by slowly, seeing his brother's shadow thrown on the walls of the kitchen. He gets the urge to rush up the concrete walkway and burst down the door and ransack Sammy's belongings to make sure that he thought to pack ammo and maybe a crossbow because you never can be too careful with black dogs, and sometimes poisoned sirloin doesn't do it. Sammy's smiling, laughing- Dean can see the young girl in the room with him, now, and practically feels the awkward flirting that he will never be able to tease Sammy about. He stays long enough to see Sammy's form throw its head back and laugh, long enough to hear the delighted sound and imagine the grin on his face, before he's out of the campus and out of the town and eventually out of the state. Sammy didn't need him as much as he needed Sam, and Sammy wasn't going to be needing a crossbow any time soon.

Dean remembers Sam reaching down to the box that only fits under the seat, now, and fishing for a cassette. Slipping it in, smiling as the chords come through. Dean hates Sam's smile, now, as much as he's sure that Sam hates his. They're faithless. Months ago, Sam would have made a crack about Winchesters and emotions, but-

Sam doesn't speak much these days.

His breathing grows labored and his body writhes on the leather and his fists are balled at his temples, and Dean's slowing the car and pulling over so his brother's thrashing doesn't cause an accident on the interstate. And it's the same tape playing now, and even though Dean hears Sam's harsh breathing and gasped explanations and his own urgent voice, the car feels just as empty as it did the first time.

_fin_


End file.
